Reaction
by WakeUpRespawn
Summary: Johnlock, angst, torture and recovery. John is used as a tool to gain information from Sherlock, but afterwards, has difficulty adjusting to the traumatic event. "The pain is distant, no longer a hot misery. How many bones? He considers it, and then John screams again, and it's like ice water sloshed in his face. He jerks, hears his teeth snap together as he looks up again."


**REACTION**

Warnings: Johnlock, Hurt/Comfort/Torture

Rating: R

Notes: Serious torture and angst.

* * *

There is an element of complete unreality to it all. Even as it's well started, even as it becomes clear, the things that are being done, the changes put into motion, it feels artificial. He will wake up in a few moments. Shaken, sweaty, twisted up in a damp sheet and wondering why his brain coughed all of it out. Breathe a sigh of relief and roll over and go back to sleep, because this can't be real. It can't be.

Sherlock's hands have begun to swell. It's fascinating, in a gruesome sort of way. Even if the broken bones would let him bend his fingers, they wouldn't; the edema is far too pronounced. Like fat dark sausages, not at all like his own hands. The pain is distant, no longer a hot misery. How many bones? He considers it, and then John screams again, and it's like ice water sloshed in his face. He jerks, hears his teeth snap together as he looks up again.

John's face is greenish-gray, so remarkably untouched for now. They've done this instead, perhaps just as painful, perhaps not. Knife in John's shoulder, slicing downward. A slit, enough to bleed but more likely to die of an infection than blood loss. They'd sliced at him, slit on his neck, his forearm. Dripping thin blood. Bruises line his collarbone and back. He can't say, but John's eyes seem to float in the sockets, his color so ghastly that it suggests oh yes, every bit as painful. Painful enough to make him faint again, Sherlock hopes. Faint, and don't wake up for a while. Please, God, please. Please let him lose consciousness.

"Still haven't changed your mind?" The dark-haired man brandishes his bowie knife. His expression is so calm. He might as well be choosing items for the recycle bin. "No?"

Sherlock returns his basilisk gaze, and shakes his head. John, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

The blonde man grins, and watches while John's left shoulder is jerked, his arm extended out. "I got lots left to do," the dark-haired man remarks, switching the knife from his left to right hand. "And all the time in the world. It's up to you."

"Don't," Sherlock says, and John's head snaps back against the chair, the cords in his neck standing out in perfect relief as he screams, short and high.

It was so much better when it was just himself. Pain, oh yes, but he could take that, not enjoy it but bear it because he had to, because that was his responsibility. And if it were only the blond man, then it might have been all right. But the dark-haired one is mildly clever. He saw it, saw that relief in the look Sherlock gave John when it was his turn, not John's, John had no part in this. Saw that relief and correctly interpreted it, and when two fractured hands did not produce results, made an executive decision. Change victims, change tactics. Textbook, really.

Hurt the one who doesn't know, to force the hand of the one who does.

But he can't tell what he knows. And John knows that. Doesn't he? Does he remember, still? Does he remember what he said, early on? Sherlock does. "For God's sake, Sherlock." John, his face pale but so beautifully resolute. "Don't you put that on me. Let them do what they want, okay, but don't let me talk you into it. Jesus Christ, I couldn't live with that. It's not worth it. Don't you tell them, don't you say a word."

_Don't you say a word._

And he hasn't. But oh, he can feel his control slipping. Piece by piece, as John's arm is cut thinly and his handsome face becomes unrecognizable, ugly with agony. And already Sherlock is shaking, his own broken fingers forgotten until he tries to clench his hands into fists.

"You got some huevos, I'll admit that." The dark-haired man sheaths the knife, giving Sherlock a considering look. "He really doesn't know, does he? Just you."

Sherlock tries to force some spit into his ash-dry mouth. "He doesn't know anything," he says hoarsely. "There's no reason to hurt him any more."

"Well, he's just a means to an end." The man shrugs, while the blond takes a boxcutter and stows it in that bottomless black box. "As you well know. You're the reason he's suffering. And he's going to suffer more, Mr. Holmes. Much more. Until you tell us what we want to know. Tell me, and your friend leaves with some blood loss and some scars. Don't tell me, and he'll be missing some fingernails and a lot more before too long. Your decision."

John, he sees, has passed out, or at least grayed out for a time. Sherlock shakes his head. "You have my answer."

"You never told me whether or not he was your lover." The dark-haired man walks closer, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. "Of course he is. I can see that. But I can't imagine how you'd let a lover go through this. You love him – and yet you're the reason he's hurting. Must be a funny sort of love. Don't you think?"

Sherlock faces forward. The dagger in his chest twists.

"Funny," the man muses. "Must be pretty important, this person you're protecting. But what's one among so many? Compared to your guy here. Just a name, an address. That's all. Tell me, Mr. Holmes. And I'll wrap it all up and kiss it better."

Sherlock faces forward, and sees John stirring. John's eyes flicker, and he meets Sherlock's gaze for a second before he closes his eyes, presses his lips together.

He could say it. He could. No one would blame him. Torture is effective. He has no training for this, no experience. No preparation whatsoever. He's a detective, not a police officer, and John isn't even working the case, doesn't have the foggiest clue what it's about. What's at stake, yes, that much John knows. But not why, not how.

John has training. Military training, doctor or not he would have extension training on how to endure these tactics. He has training. He must. Sherlock could only pray he was correct.

But it is for John's sake, as well as the boy's, that he can't allow himself the luxury of breaking. Because then it would be John's burden as much as his own.

One nine-year-old boy. And John, breathing in stuttering sips while the dark-haired man steps on his cigarette butt and walks over to the box.

"You're afraid I'll rape him," he continues in that conversational tone, bending over and picking out something. "But the truth is, I'm not sexually attracted to men, Mr. Holmes. Nor am I particularly turned on by doing other things, much as it may appear otherwise." He's holding a curious instrument, one that Sherlock's befuddled brain won't register, not until the blond reaches up to pull John's lower jaw down.

"It's all a means to an end. That's all. Just part of the job. It doesn't mean anything to me, Mr. Holmes. Nothing at all."

He's known that, knew it from the beginning. But the even, unruffled tone makes him want to howl with rage, exactly because it's true. This man can reduce John to his component elements if it will achieve his objective, and if it doesn't, he'll turn to alternative means. All that matters is the goal; how he gets there is relative.

He realizes what the instrument is when the dark-haired man pulls out the first of John's back teeth.

He remembers a case he worked. Years ago, before John's involvement at 221 B. A man's house, a routine search as part of an investigation of a betting scheme at the bar, an illegal gambling parlor in the basement. In a jar in the bathroom he'd found sixty-eight human teeth. Instead of a man who'd figured out the perfect way to rig the roulette wheel, they'd found a very quiet serial murderer. And Sherlock had wondered, standing transfixed in that immaculate bathroom, holding that horrible little jar filled with tooth-fairy leavings, whether or not the victims had been dead before their molars were yanked out.

John's high shriek is like a fork on a chalkboard. It will drive him insane, hearing much more of it. He cannot stand it. That much pain, no, it is not to be borne. He can't let them keep doing this. He can't.

"Please," Sherlock blurts, shaking his head wildly. "Please, for God's sake, stop it, please."

The man turns and regards him. "I will, as soon as you tell me what I need to know," he says blandly.

There is a tiny thread of blood trailing from John's lower lip. His entire body is shaking, his wounded arm trembling.

"I can't," Sherlock whispers.

"Then I hope your friend has a good dentist."

It takes both the men, plus the ropes around his body, to keep John still enough to pull the second tooth. And there is nothing human in John's wild eyes when they've done it.

He faints with the third. Maybe the pain, maybe the fact that he's hyperventilating so badly. Sherlock doesn't know which.

"Huh." The dark-haired man folds his horrible tooth-pulling instrument and shrugs. "Tell you what. I'll give you a minute with your mate here, how's that?" He pats John's limp thigh. "Maybe he can talk some sense into you."

He takes out a mobile and walks to the other end of the room, speaking fast and so quietly Sherlock can't make it out. The blond grins at him.

They haven't bound him. Sherlock stands and has to sit again, knees buckling. His hands throb in time with his fast heartbeat, useless swollen appendages at the ends of his arms. Even if the men were to leave, just abandon them here, Sherlock couldn't untie John's bonds. He won't be tying his own shoes much less playing his violin for a month or two.

Up close, John's breathing is still far too fast, his color appalling. His mouth hangs open, drooling spit and blood.

"John," Sherlock whispers. "Oh Jesus."

John's eyes flutter open. And then they fill with tears, rolling strangely, seeing Sherlock but not seeing him. Sherlock lifts his hands above John's head, circling his neck with his wrists, touching foreheads. His hands ache but the feeling of John against him is worth it.

"I'm going to tell him," Sherlock says tremulously. "It's not worth it. It's not. The police are protecting him. They'll keep him safe."

John's lips tremble. "No," he says. His voice is rough, and thick with blood he spits weakly to the side. Sherlock can't see the gap in his teeth. Molars, then, that's what was pulled. Not his front teeth. "No, don't."

"John," and he's begging, pleading. Don't make me sit there and watch more of this. Don't. I can't take it, not even for a nine-year-old boy's sake. That boy means nothing to me, and you...

"Doesn't – hurt that much now," John says.

"They'll hurt you more."

"Yeah. Doesn't matter."

And if John can stand it, can't he? If John can hold his ground, keep urging him to do the right thing, how can Sherlock not do it?

He leans away from John, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

"Be okay," John rasps. "Somebody'll come."

Will they? Lestrade will be hunting for them. Will he come in time? Will he arrive before Sherlock has broken?

Because it won't be John who breaks. It will be himself.

"Any decisions?" The dark-haired man takes a drag off another cigarette. His tone is cheery. "Can we stop this, all go home?"

Sherlock stares at him, and feels real hatred welling up, true hatred. "Fuck you," he says harshly.

The man's eyes narrow, and then he gives a faint smile. "I guess that's a no, then."

* * *

Sherlock has completely lost track of time. They have been here forever, days, weeks, maybe months. And he can't remember why it all started. Why they came here in the first place. None of it makes sense.

He gazes dumbly ahead, and sees that John has started crying again. Weaker now, tired soft sobs like an exhausted child's. "Don't," he blubbers. "Please stop, please stop."

Sherlock himself hasn't spoken in hours. He isn't sure he can any longer. He can't remember the boy's name. It's gone, along with so much else. His hard drive is deleting it, it's too much to bare. His mind is blank, baffled, foggy with confusion. Confusion like this is a first for him, and he wishes John would stop making all that noise.

Stop crying, John. Let me rest. I'm so tired.

The dark-haired man has untied John's left hand. John doesn't struggle. Just keeps on weeping, until Sherlock wants to scream at him to shut up, stop it, leave me alone, let me be.

"I thought you cared about him, Mr. Holmes," the man says. Sherlock has never believed in heaven or hell, never put much stock in the idea of an all-powerful being. But if there is a Devil, it is this man. "He thought you did, too. But I guess you don't."

Sherlock looks up slowly, gives a minute shake of his head. "Shut the fuck up," he whispers. Too soft to carry.

John's hand is limp in that grasp, like a dead bird. The man grasps John's ring finger and shrugs, reaching out to take the shears the blond holds out. "Suit yourself."

There is a sound, a meaty sort of snap, and John's finger falls on the floor. For a second John is silent, his mouth yawning wide, eyes stark and blank. And then he gives a mewling cry, back arching away from the chair, toes curling. Blood is everywhere, spattering on his shirt, his bare arms. But none reaches the dark-haired man, who holds John's hand fastidiously away.

Sherlock watches the blood pattering down. He remembers the street fairs when he was a child. Paint spattered on paper, and a machine that spun that paper around, made intricate impossible-to-reproduce patterns. John's blood is like paint, rich red, unreal. None of it is real.

"Stop," he says, but nothing comes out.

The man puts away the heavy shears, and picks up the finger. Shows it to Sherlock, who regards it with dull disinterest. "I can take them all," the man says. He sounds tired. "You know I can. I can cut out his tongue. Pop out his eyeballs. Is that what it's going to take, Mr. Holmes? Before you tell me what I need to know? Because you will tell me. It's just a matter of time."

John's finger. That's John's finger, his long, blunt-tipped, educated, talented finger.

Sherlock turns his head to the side and vomits.

When he looks back, the man is hunkered down next to him. Calm expression, unswayed by the stench. "I can take other parts of him, too," he says, in a kind voice. "You know I can. So why keep going? Is that stupid kid worth all this?"

Sherlock closes his eyes.

After a moment he hears the click of the man's heels, walking away.

Lestrade must find them soon. He must. Lestrade, or someone. Anyone. It can't be long. Because if it is, Sherlock isn't sure he'll survive it. Isn't sure that John will, now.

It takes smelling salts to wake John this time. The dark-haired man leans over him, mouth near John's ear. "You want it to stop, don't you?"

John's blood-flecked mouth works. "Yes," he moans. "Please stop, please stop hurting me."

"Tell your little boyfriend over there. Tell him to tell me what I want to know. He loves you, doesn't he? Won't he listen? Tell him."

John's wandering eyes slowly focus on Sherlock. "Sherlock," he says in that tremulous little-boy voice. "Make them stop, I, it hurts so bad, Sherlock. Please."

"That's it." The man is stroking John's sweat-damp hair. Gentle, tender. "He'll listen to you. Won't he? Because he cares about you. He doesn't really want you to hurt this bad. Tell him how bad it hurts. Go on."

Tears trickle down John's drawn cheeks. He hitches a sob, and whispers, "Please, Sherlock. Make them stop."

"Yes, just like that. It's just one name, isn't it? Just one silly little name. And it will all be over." The man takes a tissue from his pocket and wipes John's mouth.

"No," Sherlock says rustily. "Don't say a word, John. Don't."

"He loves that little boy more than you," the man whispers. "You see that now, don't you? He doesn't really care about you at all. Otherwise he wouldn't let me do this. Would he?"

John weeps steadily, even after the man goes silent. "Sherlock," John moans. "T- Tell him. P-please."

Sherlock's eyes are dry as stones. Bile fills the back of his throat again.

"All right," Sherlock says dully. "Alright, You can stop."

The dark-haired man lifts an eyebrow. "Tell me."

"He's bleeding. His hand is bleeding. See to him, and I'll tell you what you want to know."

"Bargaining? You're hardly in a position –"

"Fuck you," Sherlock says harshly. "I said I'd tell you, and I will. But he's in shock. Bandage his hand. Give him something to drink. And I'll tell you."

The man considers, and then smiles. "All right."

Sherlock sees Kevin Miller's face in his mind's eye, but as soon as it's there it's gone again, supplanted by John. John, whose head lolls against the chair back, John, who he loves. John, into whose eyes Sherlock is not sure he can ever gaze again without seeing his own choice.

The man reaches for something in the box, and a shot slices through the still, fusty air. A tiny dot of red appears on his forehead, blossoming wider. His eyes are blank with surprise as he falls slowly over the box.

The second shot spins the blond in his tracks, blood spraying from his left shoulder. He reels backward, clawing at John's chair, and flops down. A terrible metronomic twitching, and then he doesn't move again.

Lestrade's tense features soften in pure shock, and Sherlock meets his eyes and then lets his chin drop to his chest.

* * *

He stays six days in the hospital. It takes that long because his multiple fractures require two separate surgeries to repair. When it's done, his hands are encased in casts, and as he's predicted he's nearly helpless. With some fiddling he can balance a spoon between his thumb and the rest of his hand, but more times than not he ends up wearing the food, not eating it.

Other than that, he's physically fine.

John is not.

They aren't telling him very much about John right now. That in itself is revealing. He's gotten a little out of Lestrade, a little from Donovan.

But he finds out a few things. Things like an infection, which explains why Sherlock is in a regular med/surg room and John is in MICU. Maybe his amputated finger, maybe the barbaric dentistry. Maybe just everything taken at once, but John has sepsis, and although no one will say it to him, he knows implicitly what that means.

On the fourth day, Lestrade tells him in a relieved tone that John has been moved to a regular room. Where, he doesn't say.

"I need to see him," Sherlock says woodenly.

Lestrade doesn't nod. "Probably not the best idea right now, Sherlock."

"Why?"

"You just had surgery."

"I'm fine. Where is he?"

"Couple floors up. Give it a couple of days."

Sherlock stares at him. "What are you not telling me?"

Lestrade looks away. "He's gonna be fine. But he isn't yet."

"Of course he's not. Tell me which room. Tell me!"

After a silent moment Lestrade nods. "786."

He can't dress himself. It takes a nurse to help him, and a refrain of how he's fine, needs to stretch his legs, just a few minutes. It still earns him a wheelchair instead of walking, but he really doesn't care. His hands ache, he's ghastly tired, and he's going to go see John.

Donovan's standing in the hallway when Sherlock rolls up. She looks more tired than he feels, and for the first time he sees how she won't quite meet his eyes.

"How is he?" Sherlock asks.

She shrugs. "Not so good."

He would ask more, but she walks away, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

John looks okay. His wounded hand and arms in bandages, both arms impaled with IVs, but aside from being thinner, he looks like himself.

Sherlock sits, watching, and waits for John to see him.

An hour later the nurse returns. A doctor is with her. Sherlock glances briefly at him, and then back to John.

"How long has he been like this?" Sherlock asks quietly.

The doctor flips through John's chart. "Since he got here. It's not organic. His infection is well under control now, hardly any fever."

Sherlock stares at John's waxy-pale face. "He's catatonic."

"Close to it. Unresponsive, certainly. It's not true catatonia. More a response to intense shock, and illness. You're Mr. Holmes, aren't you?"

Sherlock nods. "Will he come out of it?"

"He could at any time. He just has to decide to."

"His finger - Were you able to –"

"Re-attach it?" The doctor glances at him. "Yes, there was just enough time but I believe his infection began at the initial amputation site."

Sherlock leans his chin on the bed rail. "John," he says softly. "John. Look at me. You're safe, we're both safe. It's all right now."

John regards the ceiling with his stony gaze, and doesn't move.

* * *

Kevin Miller is safe. He's lost both parents, and everything that's familiar to him, but he is safe. Sherlock keeps that in the forefront of his mind, reminding himself the morning he's discharged from the hospital, only to ask the aide charged with wheeling him out to hit the seventh-floor button instead of the ground floor. John's room is busy: His family has arrived, and his mother and father sit on either side of his bed, talking to him, going silent as Sherlock abandons the wheelchair and walks in.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes" John's mother wavers, standing slowly, her face finally looking her age.

Her body language tells Sherlock she is going in for a hug, and he stiffens but doesn't shift away. He wonders. Wonders if she would hug him once she knew he hadn't stopped it. That he could have prevented John's suffering, and didn't. Would she understand? He doesn't; how could she?

But he accepts her hug, feeling traitorous, bitter as gall. John's father barely looks away from the bed long enough to see who he is.

And John. John who looks asleep right now, if it really is sleep. Sherlock isn't sure. John may sleep for eternity, no one knows. John may know, wherever he has retreated, but there is no way to find out.

John's parents leave after half an hour or so, saying something about needing to check into a hotel and they'll be back in under an hour. Sherlock nods, and goes back to staring at John.

On the ninth day after their arrival in the hospital, late in the evening, Sherlock glances up and sees John looking directly at him. Seeing him.

It's like being dipped in a vat of scalding joy. "John," Sherlock says wonderingly. "Oh, John."

"Your hands," John whispers. It's more sibilants than anything else; John's voice is wispy, frail.

"They fixed them." Sherlock leans forward, his eyes filling with tears. "John."

John's mangled left hand lifts from the blanket, grazing Sherlock's cheek. "Cuppa."

Sherlock blinks at him. "What?"

"Want a cuppa."

Sherlock snorts a high laugh, shakes his head. "Yes. Okay. I'll get you one."

* * *

John says nothing about what happened. Nothing about his nine-day mental retreat. It's not as if it didn't happen. But he won't discuss things. His voice is different: lower, with a gritty rasp that may not go away. He screamed his voice nearly gone a week and a half ago, and he may be awake and functioning now, but his voice is a stranger's.

He greets his family with smiles, and doesn't say much to them. Nor does he say much to Sherlock, although it's immediately clear that he refuses to let Sherlock out of his sight. His reaction that first night to Sherlock's abortive attempts to leave is so frightening that even the nurses don't object when Sherlock pretty much takes up residence in John's hospital room.

Nevertheless, two and a half weeks after he got there John is deemed well enough for discharge. His injuries are healing. He fumbles with his still healing and stiff left hand, but seems otherwise to be coping.

At home, Sherlock waits to feel normal again. He is on self leave on any cases until his hands come out of their casts. Certainly John isn't yet recovered completely; his left hand will require physical therapy.

The first morning John refuses to come out of the bedroom. He says he's tired, wants to sleep, and Sherlock can believe that; John isn't sleeping at all right now, lying awake and tense at Sherlock's side in the darkness. But this isn't tiredness, this is terror.

It's only when Sherlock sees that John is having trouble chewing that he thinks to ask about his teeth. And it takes John some time before he admits that his mouth is very painful. In any case, he will probably need bridgework, and so Sherlock uses a pencil to dial John's dentist's number, makes an appointment for an emergency consultation.

He's glad the appointment is so early in the morning. There are only two other patients there, and so there are few witnesses to what happens. John can't even let the dentist near him. At the first touch he bolts from the chair, sending instruments flying, and thuds against the wall to stand crouched over, hands pressed over his mouth. The sound he makes is all too familiar, that ghastly terrified moan, and Sherlock briskly ushers the dentist into the hallway, explaining briefly and without detail what has happened.

There are x-rays from John's initial hospital visit. Eventually they reveal a fragment of a molar left from John's impromptu extractions, and the dentist calls Sherlock a week later to explain that he suspects an abscess, and John will have to have the fragment removed or risk another dangerous infection.

Ativan and Valium sedate John enough to allow the procedure. But he spends the next few days in bed, forcibly reminded of his ordeal by the pain in his mouth, and at times he seems almost as far away as he was those first days in the hospital.

* * *

"When do those come off?" Lestrade asks.

Sherlock shrugs. "A week I believe."

"So you're coming back?"

He blinks at him. "Of course."

He nods. "What about John?"

"He says he wants to come back. I'd hoped he'd be able to return around the same time I do."

Voice pitched low, he asks, "How is he doing? Really?"

Sherlock manufactures a smile for him. "He's all right. He was – traumatized, of course. It's taking a while to get back on his feet, but he'll make it."

He nods. Sherlock wishes he didn't know Lestrade as well as he does, wishes he couldn't see the doubt in his eyes.

There are other visitors. Molly, who has never been entirely comfortable with the fact of Sherlock's relationship with John, but tries anyway.

DI Greg Lestrade, of them all, visits the most. Several times each week, showing up with various things, takeout food, ice cream, rented DVDs, as well as the expected few files he needs Sherlock's input on. Most of what he brings is not work. And he clearly isn't only there to see Sherlock. It's John he spends more time with, gruffly coaxing him to take walks, or to Speedy's for coffee.

Watching them, one night, Sherlock thinks that maybe it's because, of all their 'colleagues', Lestrade is the only one to have seen John as he was that night. It had been Greg who cut John's bonds, who held him when he collapsed. Whose shirt was splotched with John's blood after the ambulance crew had loaded him up and spirited him away.

"You can't honestly tell me you never played chicken-foot." Greg sits back, shaking his head. "You gotta know how to play dominoes."

"But not THIS game," John says. Eight weeks after his injuries, his hand is unbandaged, his healing wounds pink and tender. He keeps his left little finger tucked against his palm. "This one's new."

"So lemme teach it to you."

"Did you bring beer, too?"

"Is the Pope Catholic?"

And John smiles at Lestrade, a slight quirk at the edges of his mouth. Sherlock's chest aches at it.

John plays dominoes with Lestrade until nearly midnight, and he sleeps that night, sleeps nearly six full hours. The next day Sherlock sends Lestrade a bottle of his favorite scotch and when Greg calls to ask why, Sherlock can't reply. His throat is too thick with tears.

* * *

He returns to work two months after their shared ordeal. His hands aren't back to normal; his doctor has informed him that they may never regain 100% of their former strength and dexterity. But he can write, and tune his violin, and his fine motor skills are mostly back, even if he has an annoying tremor when he's tired. It will suffice.

John's return is delayed by illness. He seems to have no immune system following his septic episode in the hospital, and has caught numerous bugs and viruses since then. But it gives Sherlock time to acclimate, to remember what it's like to be here, back on the job.

He dives in with utter relief, and after two days back pouring over evidence and case files, he feels that he's finally himself again.

Only four days later, John decides to return too.

Sherlock has told himself that John's recovery will take time, that he's undergone a monstrous ordeal, and that getting back in the saddle will benefit him just as it has Sherlock.

But this is not the John he worked with two months ago. This is a different John, a deeply wounded man who is not whole yet, and may not be for some time. His first night demonstrates how very changed he is.

"Sherlock?"

He looks up. "Yes?"

Molly's face is set in grim lines. "Can you check on John?"

He's already standing up, pushing his chair back. "What happened?"

"He was in the coroner's office, checking the wounds of the victim, and I came in and he- freaked."

Sherlock brushes past her.

At first he thinks he's moved out of the fibers lab; he can't see John anywhere. But he's there. Sitting on the floor, back resting against the drawers. Sherlock can see him shaking even from several feet away.

"John?" He pitches his voice low, keeps it soft. Approaches slowly, out of instinct. "You okay?"

"I'm okay," John whispers. His eyes have a funny staring look to them, and he doesn't meet Sherlock's eyes. "I'm okay."

Sherlock hunkers down a couple of feet away. "Molly didn't mean to startle you."

John nods rapidly. "I know. I know she didn't."

"You feel like taking a walk? Getting some air?"

He can hear John's fast, agitated breathing now. Hyperventilating. This is not over. This is not nearly over. "No," John says jerkily. "I don't want to see them."

"See who? Molly?"

"Any of them."

"John –"

"Leave me alone. I'm okay." With obvious effort John unfolds himself from his tight tucked posture. His hands are shaking so badly, gripping his phone in his hand, Sherlock can't see how he will be able to do his work, but he struggles to his feet, shaking his head. "Just – let me do this. I'm okay."

Sherlock nods slowly. "I'm right down the hall. If you need me."

"Okay." John fumbles his phone into his pocket. "Okay."

Molly's in the hallway. "Is he okay? I'm sorry Sherlock, I didn't mean to scare him like that."

"I know." He nods. "It wasn't you. He – startles easily."

"Is there – anything I can do?"

He smiles briefly. "Try to give him lots of advance notice that you're around. People popping out of nowhere - It's difficult."

She nods. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Really."

"Okay." She gives him a dubious look, and walks away.

* * *

The next night, something at a crime scene sends John into such a frenzy of panic that Sherlock takes him home. Wonders if he should perhaps go to the hospital instead.

"I wanna go home," John says, shoved up as flat as he can get against the passenger-side door. "Take me home, I want to go home."

Sherlock nods grimly. "I am, John. What is it? What happened?"

"God." John curls his arms over his head, plants his face against his knees. "Can't. No."

"It's okay. It's all right, John. I swear. Nothing bad is going to happen. Listen to me, okay? We're going home."

John clutches his head harder and doesn't say anything.

At home, John prowls the flat, looking for what, he won't say. A quiet phone conversation with Lestrade is unexpectedly revealing. An assault, the victim bound with ropes to the bed. Knife wounds. It makes sense.

But John isn't slowing down, unceasing in his vigilance, his checking and rechecking the locks on the doors, the window latches. His panic isn't easing. After an hour of watching, Sherlock faces him in the hallway. He holds out a pill. "Take it."

John's haunted eyes dart from Sherlock's face to the pill to the doorway, and he swallows the pill dry, no questions asked, no complaint. It hurts to see that, to know that John just doesn't care anymore.

The Ativan kicks in about forty-five minutes later. It doesn't completely kill the anxiety, but John slows down, finally sits. He drinks the tea Sherlock makes, and slumps in his chair.

"Want to talk about it?" Sherlock asks, weary to his very core.

John regards his left hand, flexing his healing finger.

"John, what happened tonight? Lestrade said –"

"I don't want to talk about that." John's jaw juts stubbornly. "I want to sleep."

Sherlock sits back. "Okay. Maybe that's a good idea."

But it takes another Ativan to make John relax enough to lie down, and even then Sherlock isn't sure he'll actually sleep.

* * *

Mike Stamford's handshake is almost too firm; Sherlock's fingers have been aching with the chilly weather, and he fights down a wince. He's forgotten how imposing Mike is, the contrast between his bulky physical form and the gentle, cultivated tone of his voice. Sherlock had overheard a nurse a month earlier mentioning Dr. Stamford relocating to an outside hospital. A psychiatric facility.

"Good to see you again, Sherlock," the doctor says with a smile. "I hope this isn't an official visit."

"Personal," Sherlock says, settling back into the comfortable chair. "But not unrelated to some professional concerns as well, I admit."

"Intriguing. Go on?"

The genial look fades as Sherlock gives a brief summary of events. Stamford is very sober indeed as Sherlock wraps it up.

"Jesus, Sherlock," he says thickly. "I'm terribly sorry. No one should have to go through all that."

Sherlock nods. "I feel as if I can handle a great deal of it on my own," he continues. "It's John I'm worried about. Physically, he seems fine. But otherwise?" He shrugs helplessly. "He just seems to be getting worse. It has to be post-traumatic stress, I realize, but after what happened while he was hospitalized, the catatonia - I'm not sure what to do. Not at all sure."

"Frankly I'd be far more surprised if he were fine," Mike says after a moment. "Bad enough to be physically tortured to that extent, but to be made a bargaining chip for another person's life - He's lucky to be as functional as he is."

"That's just it. He's really not very functional. And becoming less so. I can give him pills to take, keep him medicated. But what kind of life is that?"

Mike shifts in his chair, nodding slowly. "I'll be happy to talk to him. Do an evaluation. Myself and a colleague. Would that help?"

"I can't see how it could hurt."

"Bring him by tomorrow morning?"

"All right."

The real surprise is in John's reaction to being told about an upcoming appointment. He pokes at the food he hasn't been eating and nods. "Okay. Maybe that'd be good."

Sherlock stares at him. "I wasn't sure how you'd feel about it."

"I know you're trying to help." John gives up on the food and pushes his plate away. "I know I'm letting you down."

It's like a smart slap in the face; he recoils with pure shock. "John, you're not letting me down. For God's sake, there's no –"

"It's okay," John interrupts. "I mean, I'll go, right? Maybe he can do something."

Sherlock gives a cautious nod. "Yeah."

He isn't there for the evaluation – Stamford tactfully suggests returning in an hour – so he misses the bulk of what transpires. But a glance at John's half-lidded eyes puts every nerve on high alert.

"What happened?" Sherlock snaps.

Mike sighs. "He became highly agitated. Combative. I gave him a shot to calm him down."

"A shot?"

"Haloperidol. You want my candid opinion?"

Sherlock gazes down at John's dozing face and nods. "Please."

"He's disabled. Perhaps profoundly so. He would benefit from intensive counseling and a regular medication schedule. Preferably inpatient."

It is his worst-case scenario. Hearing it is like a stiff blow to the solar plexus; he can barely stand up under it. He swallows. "Inpatient."

"I can make the arrangements for you. Sherlock, he can't return to that sort of work anymore, to what constitutes a regular life. Acute stress disorder's the first of a laundry list of problems. Understandable problems. Your work is - I can't think of a worse place for him to be, quite frankly. John needs a controlled environment, routine, order. Or he will only get worse."

There is no prevarication on Mike's face, nothing secretive. Sherlock slowly sits down. "All right," he says dully. "Does he know? That you want to hospitalize him?"

Mike sighs and shrugs. "I mentioned it. But he was so agitated, I doubt it made much of an impression."

"It has to be voluntary, Mike. I won't make this a matter for the courts. It would cost him too much."

"Understood."

"I'll talk to him tonight. If he agrees – then."

Mike nods. "Call me. You have my mobile number?"

"Right."

* * *

That afternoon, still drowsy from the Haldol, John doesn't seem upset at the idea. Doesn't seem to care very much one way or the other. Mike makes the arrangements, and by five they are sitting in a bland office at a facility Sherlock has visited only in a professional capacity before now. John is withdrawn, distant as the stars, and Sherlock wonders if the next time he sees him, John will have retreated all the way again.

"I love you," Sherlock says when the sweet-faced counselor absents herself for a moment. It's a whisper. He doesn't say it often, and he swallows guiltily as he adds, "Very much."

John nods. "Love you too," he mumbles.

"If you want to leave, you can. This isn't prison, John."

John says nothing to that.

Mike is waiting in the hallway, and it all seems so civilized, so calm and orderly, that Sherlock is unprepared for John's reaction to his departure. Panic contorts John's face. "Come with me," he says, clinging to Sherlock's hand. "Don't leave me here."

"John, you'll be fine." Sherlock forces a smile, squeezes John's fingers. "They're going to help you get better. Remember?"

"I don't want to stay," John blurts, shaking his head. "Don't make me stay here, I need to be with YOU."

"John?" Mike reaches out to gingerly touch John's shoulder. "Let's –"

"No!" John flinches away, thuds against the wall. "Don't touch me! Get your fucking hands OFF me!"

"Everyone here is your friend, John," Mike says evenly. "No one is going to hurt you. I promise you that. This is safe, this is where you agreed to come. All right?"

Panting, John glares at him. "I want to go home," he says shakily. "Let me go home."

"You will. Just not right now. Okay?"

"Sherlock?" John turns his beseeching look at him. "Do I have to stay?"

Sherlock takes John's hands and lifts them to his chest. He leans and rests his forehead against John's. "You'll be okay. You need to stay. For a while... Until you feel better." He hates himself.

"I don't feel this bad," John whispers against him. His eyes are filling with tears. "I don't. I'm not a broken veteran. I'm not."

Sherlock swallows hard.

Mike gives Sherlock a meaningful look, and then turns back to John. "Come on, John, let's go get you settled in."

It's worse than the violence, than the frenzied physical reactions, to see John's body sagging, defeat writ large in his posture. He pulls away from Sherlock and doesn't look at him again.

Outside, Sherlock draws a deep breath of the crackling-cold air, and releases it in a hoarse sob.

* * *

He isn't sure he can face Bart's without John there, but he's even less sure the flat won't be worse. So he goes to work. Into the lab, alone.

Which is where Lestrade finds him an hour later.

"You okay?"

Sherlock nods without looking up. "Fine. What is it?"

Lestrade steps inside, and Sherlock sees him shoving his hands in his pockets. "John okay?"

He takes his time replying. "Not really, no."

"Something happen?"

He can't lie to Lestrade. He continues to stare down the eye of the microscope. "John's in the hospital," he says after a moment.

Lestrade's shoulders sag. "Aw, shit."

"He needs help," Sherlock continues, choosing his words carefully. "And therapy. I can't give him what he needs. I hope they can."

Lestrade sits down, and when Sherlock doesn't go on, he says, "It's not your fault, Sherlock."

"Isn't it?" For the first time Sherlock faces him squarely. "I let those things happen. I could have stopped them, and I didn't. And now John is –" He can't say that part.

"Okay," Lestrade says, nodding. "So let's say you stopped them. Gave them the kid's name. Is that a better solution? A child's life for John's? Hmm?"

"You would have protected Kevin. He would have been all right."

"You hope."

"So you're saying –"

"I'm saying," Lestrade interrupted stolidly, "that there was no good decision to be made. And I think you know that. Would John have wanted you to give it all up for him? Just to save him from the pain?"

Sherlock regards him and swallows. "No," he says curtly. "No, I did what he wanted."

"John will get better. He's gone through hell, and he may not be out of it yet, but he's gonna get better, Sherlock. And Kevin Miller is alive. If you'd given up his name, they would have killed you both, and probably Miller, too. You did the only thing you could do. John agreed. If you asked him right now you know he'd still agree. Even with all the shit."

"I know," Sherlock whispers. "I know he would."

"Where's he at?"

"Maudsley Psychiatric."

"They say how long?"

Sherlock shakes his head slowly. "As long as it takes, I suppose."

Lestrade leans forward and clasps Sherlock's wrist, hard, before letting go. "It's the right thing to do," he says gruffly. "May not feel like it right now. But it is. John's not gonna get better without help. You said it yourself. So now he'll get it."

"Yes."

"Anything I can do, Sherlock. You know that."

Sherlock nods. "Thank you."

* * *

It's two weeks before Mike gives him the okay for a visit. Before now, he's been gently but firmly dissuasive. "Give it time, Sherlock," he's said. "We're still adjusting meds."

On the appointed day, Mike meets him in the lobby. They sit in fat, drab chairs while Stamford lays it out for him. "He's a lot more stable now. Responding well to medication, interacting better."

Sherlock nods. "When can he come home?"

Mike's expression doesn't change. "Not quite yet."

"Does he know I'm here? Does he want to see me?"

"See for yourself."

He finds John in the rec room, watching sports news with two other patients. John's expression is neutral; he looks bored, until he sees Sherlock. Then a huge grin spreads like sunshine over his face, and he scrambles to his feet. His hug is warm and real and so natural, Sherlock feels his knees loosening beneath him.

"Took you long enough," John says, still beaming at him. "Thought you forgot about me."

"Never," Sherlock says. "God, it's good to see you."

"Come on." John grabs his wrist and guides him down the hallway.

John's room is small and messy, and Sherlock thinks about how neat John used to be, how methodical about making his bed and tidying things away from his years in the military. "Want a Coke?" John hovers near the doorway. "I can go get you one."

"That's all right."

John walks up and slides his arms around Sherlock's waist. "You look tired," he observes. "You okay?"

Sherlock nods. "Yes, fine. How are you?"

John leans forward and kisses him soundly on the mouth. And it feels wrong, feels awkward and uncomfortable, and when Sherlock goes stiff against him John draws back.

"What's wrong?" John asks.

It's my fault you're here, Sherlock thinks. It's my fault you are for all intents and purposes institutionalized. It's all my fault. And I thought I understood the way things were, but I can't handle that. I can't. I can't stand it.

John's expression crumples. "Are you upset with me?"

"No," Sherlock manages. He takes a step backward. "Of course not. Absolutely not."

"Well, Jesus, you don't visit for two weeks and now –"

"I wasn't allowed to visit you," Sherlock snaps.

Clearly John has not known this. A quick flurry of expressions: surprise, suspicion, understanding. Shame. "Oh."

He watches John retreat to sit on the edge of the narrow bed. "Mike thought it would be best if you had some time to settle in first. I came as soon as I could."

John nods slowly. "Okay."

Sherlock eases down to sit in the sole chair. "So how are you feeling? Better?"

"I guess."

"John –"

"I'm in a mental hospital," John says coldly. "How do you think I feel?"

Sherlock draws back.

"How's little Kevin?" John asks. His eyes are bright and filled with hate. "Is he in a hospital, too?"

He has never felt so cold. So frozen with shock and horror and acid guilt. Sherlock swallows. "Not to my knowledge. He's fine, John. He'll be able to testify."

"Well, good for him. Guess they don't want me to, huh?"

"Don't –"

"So why'd you come, Sherlock? To make sure you did okay by me? Make sure I'm not out there freaking out at something and embarrassing you?" John snorts and stands, pacing over to the window. "Don't worry. I got three hots and a cot and all the pills I can swallow. Shots, too, you know? So just put your mind at ease, and leave me alone. I'm just fine."

Standing too, Sherlock shakes his head. "Jesus, John, I lo –"

"You love me?" John gapes at him. "You let him cut my goddamn FINGER OFF!" He waves his left hand, visibly trembling. "What kind of love is THAT?"

"Everything all right?" Mike asks from the doorway. He's calm, and alert, and Sherlock is horribly glad to see him.

"Get out!" John screams, back plastered against the barred window. "Leave me the fuck alone! Take your duty and your – PITY – and fuck off!"

He's frozen solid. He can only stand there, motionless, barely able to breathe, while Mike walks inside, imposes his bulk between them. "You should go, Sherlock," he says calmly. "I'll talk to you later."

John claps his hands over his ears. "Stop! Shut up! I can't, I can't, I can't."

"Can't what, John?" Mike asks. Over his shoulder he says, "Go. Please."

"I can't think when you say that," John says. Pleading, shaking his head. "Leave me alone."

Sherlock backs out of the room, feet dragging on the carpet until he's in the hallway. A woman in bright scrubs brushes past him, and then John's door closes.

* * *

He waits in the lobby, still enclosed in that cold cocoon of silence, until Mike walks over. He sits with a sigh, and says, "I'm sorry about that."

Sherlock thinks he should hear ice cracking as he nods. "He's worse."

"I think he may have been somewhat delusional even before he was hospitalized," Mike says gently. "Brief psychosis brought on by acute stress."

"He's schizophrenic." Sherlock says hoarsely.

"No, not my official diagnosis. But functionally, at the moment there isn't a lot of difference." Mike sighs and crosses his legs. "As lopsided as it sounds, as much as John appears worse to you, he's on the right track. He's communicating in therapy, talking about issues, exploring them. Exploring issues he had before all this, during the war. He's starting to respond to medication. Give him time, Sherlock. You don't put Humpty Dumpty back together again overnight. It takes time, and work."

"He hates me. He blames me."

"I think you're wrong. But tell me: Was it your fault? What happened to John?"

He gazes at him. His mouth is dry as chalk. "I don't know anymore," Sherlock whispers. "I thought I did. But seeing him –" His throat closes up, and he shakes his head.

Mike leans forward. "Come back in a week. And Sherlock - There is no shame in admitting you need some help, too. John's in good hands. I think you should see someone. Talk about this. You carry your guilt around as if it's a penance, something you owe John, for what he endured. But you suffered, too. It's all right to admit that. In fact I don't see how you can go forward without admitting it."

He nods and gets to his feet. "I'll see you next week," he says, almost an aside.

"We'll be here," Mike says softly.

* * *

Pride, perhaps misplaced pride, keeps him from admitting to anyone else how he's feeling. But it drags at him, the knowledge of John's illness, his complicity in that. He isn't sure whether to call it his own case of PTSD, or simple depression. He isn't familiar with depression, has never to his knowledge suffered from it longer than it takes to reform his thought processes, jerk himself up by his bootstraps. Addiction, yes. But his addiction stemmed from boredom and a need for excitement depression or trauma. None of his usual methods do any good this time. He doesn't understand it, doesn't comprehend why this feeling does not respond to logic or reason. He knows it wasn't his fault. He knows there was absolutely nothing he could do to prevent any of it from happening. So why can't he go forward?

His second visit to see John is marginally better than the first, but doesn't particularly reassure him. Mike says John's current meds seem to help immensely with his stress-borne delusions, but John is distant, amorphous as fog, and Sherlock leaves wracked with uncertainty. Was John glad to see him? Did he simply hide his anger better? It isn't clear.

He remembers meeting a psychologist in the course of an investigation a couple of years ago. A woman, Dr. Amanda Tilson. She had struck him at the time as remarkably level-headed, and he makes an appointment for the following Tuesday.

Tilson's office is comfortable, slightly cluttered and not at all stuffy or formal. Sherlock finds that oddly refreshing. It goes against his very nature to talk about "feelings". If you'd ask him only a year before he'd be in this situation he would have found the idea barking mad. But he knew, logically, having an unbiased party to help sort through these thoughts and ...Christ, _feelings_... would ultimately help himself and hopefully, John. And that was his sole motivation.

"So what brings you to see me, Sherlock?" Tilson asks quietly. She's dressed in jeans and a sweater, her bare feet in Birkenstocks.

Sherlock studies his hands closely. "I made a choice, some time ago," he says evenly. "And my partner suffered for it. Suffered immeasurably."

"Did you make the right choice?"

He faces her, his hands lying limp on his lap. "That's just it," he whispers. "I don't know if I will ever know the answer to that. And it's unacceptable."

She gives a slow nod. "Tell me what happened?"

"John – my partner and I were abducted. Kidnapped."

Her eyes widen slightly. "Go on?"

His eyes burn.. "I don't know if I can."

"Take all the time you need, Sherlock," she says gently. "That's all you can do."

He nods jerkily. "All right."

* * *

It takes all of his first hour to make himself tell the full story. By the end he's soaked with sweat, exhausted, and feeling as if he's had every inch of his skin scraped raw. He should feel better, shouldn't he? Not worse.

Tilson suggests meeting twice a week to begin with, an arrangement Sherlock agrees to numbly, unsure if he can make himself come back at all. But on Thursday he's there, and again the following Tuesday.

It's almost a routine, really. He visits John twice a week, the maximum number he's allowed, and arrives each time with things he hopes will make John's stay easier, less like exile. Things from home that John might want, his binoculars for bird-watching, his iPod, books, magazines. He keeps John filled in on what's going on with cases, editing out the more gruesome ones.

The flat is terribly empty. He avoids it as much as he can, going home only to sleep and shower and find something to wear only to head straight back outside.

It takes four weeks of therapy before he can admit that Greg Lestrade was right, that what Sherlock perceives as a choice on his part was in fact no choice at all. In Tilson's cluttered office, he fights the urge to finally let go, fights and loses. He lets himself feel the grief for the first time.

Not the last, as it happens. For a time it's as if all he can feel is grief, overwhelming sadness at what has happened, what has become of John and of himself since that terrible night nearly four months ago. The season has changed in that time, winter creeping eagerly toward spring, things have changed.

His progress is faster than John's. But without his own work in therapy, he isn't sure he could stand the conversation he has with Mike, one balmy March morning.

"I'm sorry." Mike looks tired today, the bags under his eyes plump and shaded even darker than his normal skin tone. "I thought I could let him go home before now, Sherlock. I honestly did. But I can't put it on a timeline. I wish I could."

"He seems so much better," Sherlock says thickly. "I thought - I don't know what I thought."

"He can improve, and he will. He'll go home one day soon."

"But not yet."

Mike shakes his head. "No. Not today."

"When he does leave," Sherlock says carefully, "will he be well?"

"Aw, Sherlock. What's wellness? Are you asking me if he'll never be troubled again? I can't answer that. Here, he's protected. It's safe, it's secure, there are no threats. If the rest of the world were like this place, I'd send a nurse to get him to sign his discharge papers today." He heaves a deep sigh. "But I don't have to tell you that the real world is nothing like this place. And John is simply not ready to face that. He doesn't have the skills, the coping mechanisms in place."

"He has such – a kind soul," Sherlock whispers. "My biggest fear has always been that something would crush him. He's so open. And now you're telling me that –" He breaks off, swallowing.

"Look. I'm telling you that no one can say for sure where John will be six months from now, or a year. Best-case scenario? Not long from now, he walks out of here and life goes on. Maybe not exactly the way it was before, but close enough."

"And worst case?"

"I don't know. Worst case, he has lingering problems."

Sherlock nods slowly. "I'd like to see him now."

"All right."

He finds John in the solarium, the field guide to local birds Sherlock brought him a few weeks ago open on his lap. His binoculars sit on the floor next to his chair. He's dozing.

"Hey," Sherlock says softly, pulling up a nearby chair. "John?"

John blinks at him, squinting in the sunshine. "Hi," he murmurs. "Is it Friday already?"

Sherlock smiles and nods. "Time flies, doesn't it?"

John's eyes are still dilated, and he yawns. "How are you? How're cases?"

"Same as usual. Busy. I think the criminals like the weather, too."

"Let's sit over there."

John leaves his book and binoculars where they are, taking Sherlock's hand and leading him to a couch a few feet away. There, John leans against him, his heavy eyelids sagging.

"Did you bring me anything?"

Sherlock smiles, putting his arm around John's shoulders, stroking his hair. "A few things. You want to see?"

"Nah. I'll look at them later."

Cheek against John's hair, Sherlock gazes out the broad expanse of window. It's a beautiful day, the kind of day, a year ago, John would have filled with physical activity. A walk in the park or a stroll downtown.

But John's medications make him somnolent, and he sleeps much of every day. Sherlock is hoping that once he's released the dosages can be reduced, but for the moment, John is pretty out of it a lot of the time.

What will it be like, when John comes home? Will he work again? The assumption has always been that he would, but Sherlock isn't so sure any longer. Their profession is an unforgiving one. Even the strongest can have trouble dealing with the mayhem they see every day. Will he be able to shoulder that burden again? Who can say?

"Molly sent you that candy," he says softly. "The kind you liked last time."

John stirs against him. "Oh, that I want to open now."

Sherlock looks at him and sees his grin, and has to grin, too.

* * *

"You can call me any time you feel like it," Tilson tells him. Her smile is warm, brightening her plain features. "I mean that."

"Thank you," Sherlock says. "I just may do that."

Her hand is cool and dry, fingers pressing his strongly. "Good luck, Sherlock. Enjoy the homecoming."

"We will."

His step is light, going out to the cab. The drive to Maudsley seems to go by faster, or maybe the cab is speeding a little more than it usually does. But today is a good day. Today is a day he's been waiting for a very long time.

He gets dropped off near the main entrance, and smiles at a familiar nurse on the way inside. Bypassing the elevator and taking the stairs at a jog. He's gotten back to a physical-fitness routine he'd left behind years ago, when work became so completely time-annihilating, and the stretch of his muscles feels good.

John's door is open. Sherlock walks up and leans against the door jamb. "Hey," he says.

John looks up from his suitcase. "Hi. I thought you'd never get here."

"What? I'm early." Sherlock gives a wounded glance at his watch. "Half an hour."

John smiles and goes back to zipping his case. "I already signed everything. Let's go."

"Music to my ears."

There are numerous goodbyes, of course. John cannot spend fifteen minutes in a place without making a friend of some kind, and there are hugs, and smiles, and there is a lot of well-wishing. Mike Stamford isn't there; they've covered that ground already. And finally they're walking out the front door, and John's slinging his bag into the back of the cab and talking about going to Angelo's, maybe even that night, because he is by God going to have a decent meal before the sun goes down or there will be hell to pay.

Sherlock just grins, wordlessly, and nods, and when they're inside he leans over and kisses John's mouth before the cab finally pulls away.


End file.
